


The Betrayal of Memory

by MercurialBianca_TheHonorableMrsMcCarthy



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, Masturbation, sad wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:24:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7472955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercurialBianca_TheHonorableMrsMcCarthy/pseuds/MercurialBianca_TheHonorableMrsMcCarthy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after the events of Cocaine Blues. Jack is at home processing his day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Betrayal of Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afterdinnerminx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterdinnerminx/gifts).



> This came out quite a bit more angst-filled than I was expecting. As is always this case in these situations, I ~~blame~~ acknowledge [@fire_sign](http://www.yoururl.com) with much love to [@sarahtoo](http://www.yoururl.com) for her superb editing skills

His first thought was “Rosie will never believe this, I can’t wait to tell her about it.” But then he remembered, Rosie was gone. Rosie had moved out and was living with her sister. She wouldn’t be fussing about the kitchen when he got home, making him cocoa like she used to when he worked late.

She always protested when he came home with stories from work. Reprimanding him for bringing the job home with him. However, it never took long before she was laughing with him about the funny stories, holding his hand while her other strayed to her collarbone during the harrowing ones, or wrapping her arms around him during the heartbreaking ones.

She would have loved to hear about this new busybody who had plagued his case. The high-fashion outfits, the Sapphist Doctor best friend, the familial connection to the appropriately named Prudence Stanley. Oh yes, Rosie would have had a good chuckle with Jack over all of it. And then, to top it all off, finding her in a Turkish bathhouse, only to have it explode not an hour afterward. Well, she would feign shock at first, but then that laugh of hers would bubble up. That laugh that melted his heart 16 years ago. The thought of which broke his heart just a bit more today.

He sighed audibly as he unlocked the door to his bungalow. Startled by the cold and quiet. That was when he missed Rosie the most. Once inside with the stove or fire lit; a few lights on, maybe a glass of whiskey, he could snap himself out of his melancholy mood. But those first few moments every night, he could feel it rise up from his legs that moved a little slower, from his gut tying itself in knots, from his heart that squeezed a bit tighter, and finally from his head that drooped in defeat.

He wondered if he would ever really get used to coming home to an empty house.

“Alright Jack, you can continue to mope around tonight or you can get on with the business of living. For God’s sake, make your own damn cocoa.”

He hung up his hat and coat on the pegs by the door. He sat on the small bench in the foyer to remove his work shoes and replace them with this slippers. He shuffled down to the bedroom to remove his jacket and waistcoat. Then he decided to shed his shirt and trousers as well, slipping into his favorite robe. The final trappings of Detective Inspector shed, he shuffled his way back to the kitchen and the cocoa.

He put the saucepan on the stove and filled it with milk and cocoa, setting it all to low. He retrieved some whiskey and poured it into his cup. It had been a spectacularly long day after all and he felt he earned it.

He picked up his wooden spoon and stirred the cocoa gently. His mind once again wandered back to images of Rosie standing at the range and stirring the cocoa. Sometimes, wearing nothing more than her big frilly apron. Her hair tied back with a loose ribbon. He loved sitting at the kitchen table watching her back muscles move and the small echo of movement across her well-formed backside. She had always been a beautiful woman. Jack felt a pang as the memories of Rosie flowed like blood straight to his groin. He tried to ignore the sensation and the feeling of his cock against his robe.

He poured his cocoa in the cup with the whiskey and shuffled into his parlour. He parked himself in his favorite chair next to the lamp and picked up the book sitting on the end table. It was one of his few indulgences, a new novel, once a week. This one happened to be _Gentlemen Prefer Blondes_ by Anita Loos. It wasn’t his typical fare, but his cousin Emily had loved it and he trusted her judgment more than most.

He took a sip of cocoa, settled in and started reading. He managed to finish most of the cocoa and was few chapters in before the whiskey and fatigue combined to make him drowsy. The story was clearly satire and before the drowsiness had taken hold he had even laughed aloud a couple of times. The laughter seemed to echo in his ears as it bounced off all the items in the parlour except her.

Rosie would have looked up from her spot on the couch and asked him to read the funny passages aloud. They sometimes took turns reading aloud from their favorite stories, but Rosie would almost always demur in favor of having Jack read aloud as he always changed his voice to match the characters.

And sometimes, when he was reading a more romantic passage, Rosie would make her way over to him and either sit on his lap as he read, slowly unbotting his pajamas and kissing him or sliding to her knees in front of his chair and taking him in her hands or mouth.

Once again, Jack felt the painful tug at his groin and knew if he looked down, he’d see his cock trying to burst out of his smalls. He didn’t look down, but slowly took his hand and undid the flaps of his smalls, sliding his hand inside. It was a habit he had picked up in the war. Otherwise, the likelihood of remaining faithful to your wife was negligible.

One of his favorite images came to mind as his hands stroked. It was once again Rosie wearing nothing but her apron, joining him on his chair to read a passage of a book she had rather fancied with a better than usual romance. It was not Shakespeare, but he had to admit, she’d made a rather good case for reading it together, usually naked.

Jack’s hand gripped a little more firmly as he pictured her setting down a slice of cake on the end table before sliding onto his lap. She had frosted, Jack had baked. They discovered quickly it was his strong suit to bake but she loved the act of frosting. She then fed them both bits of cake as he read chapters aloud. On this particular occasion, the passage had been quite sensual and both became too distracted to finish the cake. Instead, they ended up with Rosie straddling him on the chair.

Her hair had fallen over her shoulders and skimmed her breasts. Jack had made quick work of the apron and tossed it to the floor.

His hand sped up as the image of Rosie rising and falling, settling into a rhythm over his cock, washed over him. The scent of their combined musk filling his mind as if she was there with him and it wasn’t just his hand causing the blood to pulse in his groin. He remembered the beautiful apricot of her flushed cheeks, the creaking of the chair as they rocked back and forth. He could hear the noise now with his own ministrations.

He heard a low moan escape and knew he was close. He pictured her breasts bouncing as she sped up over him. Her beautiful nipples erect. He leaned over to suck one of her breasts and the surprised gasp that escaped her lips tightened the coil in his belly. He recalled taking a hand to grasp her ass, feeling the contrast of the softness of her skin with her muscles working underneath. The other hand moved to her belly and made its way between them.

He came undone just as his mind filled in the final piece of the memory. Her belly, he’d forgotten about her belly. He called out her name softly before he crumpled into tears for the child that never came.


End file.
